


From Under the Rainbow

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: Supernatural
Genre: An Imp Called Kaz, Gen, Human Impala, Human!Impala - Freeform, KAZ 2Y5, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take a drive down memory lane towards one fateful day in 1973.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Under the Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally for my Human!Impala cosplay/ask blog, ["An Imp Called Kaz"](http://animpcalledkaz.tumblr.com). I'm still not entirely sure how I went from just joking about dressing up as the Impala to writing perspective fic, but some mysteries are best left unsolved.

My mind as it is at the moment, it’s…

It’s like a road winding through a forest on the foggiest of nights. The kind of fog where the headlights don’t light more than a foot away, maybe less. Every now and then, the lights might fleetingly catch the distinct shape of something—a deer at the edge of the trees, the eyes of a raccoon daring to cross at the last possible moment, a sign displaying the proper speed limit—before it’s gone into the darkness and forgotten.

Once in a while, however, the lights catch something else. Something with no discernible shape, but it hovers in the road, shining in the way a deer's or raccoon's eyes might, but brighter. Sharper. As I get closer, it does not move, does not vanish.

I move through it and there a flash of light—

_And I remember something._

I'm sitting in a lot. Most of my time is spent just sitting here. Unused. Empty. I've been here for quite some time, actually, left by the first one who had me in exchange for a handful of green paper. I'm not alone, though. There are other cars around me, left here like I was. Sometimes there are more, sometimes less.

Once in a bright while, a human takes an interest. They take me out. I run along the roads near the lot, and for a while, I feel…

_Feel._

(That's a strange term to me, still. Cars don't feel. Not in the same way humans do. We don't remember the same way, either. Humans think in a straight line, in words, but for me it’s like—like flashes? Like bubbles bursting. It all comes together in bits and pieces, sometimes randomly. It is…overwhelming.)

Those humans that take me out always bring me back to the lot. They complain about one thing or another. They leave without me, or sometimes they leave with another car. And so I spend another day on the lot. My value rises. Lowers. Humans bicker over the number with my supposed caretaker. They leave because he refuses to agree. Sometimes they come back with new numbers. Usually they take another car. Some just never come back.

Extended stillness is a terrible thing for a car. Any number of things can happen. Dust, rust, and bugs can move in. The parts can get old and break. The oil can go bad. And when a car breaks down, it…

You see, for a car, the worst thing is dismantlement before our course has been run. I guess it’s best to say that we _fear_ this. We fear places where this happens, where we’re left open and exposed, our parts harvested carelessly while decay eats away at us.

_Scrapyards._

_Chop shops._

These are things you humans have. These are negative places. Unwanted places. Less analogous to cemeteries and more like…like…

There is a phrase I've heard my boys use before. I think it's—it’s—

_Killing field._

Even thinking about it gives me a strange sort of discomfort. Same as when I think of _scrapyards_ or _chop chops_. That must be it. These places, they are like killing fields to us.

(I suppose that’s where I will end up one day, the day my boys finally take the road I cannot travel, but going there before that day…)

One day a man comes to the lot. He is young, and he’s… If he were a car, he would at least appear to be in mint condition. (There's a word humans have for that. P—pretty, I think? Or maybe beautiful. I’ve heard Dean use those words a lot when he talks to me.) But there is something somewhat off about him. I… It's as if he carries all the many miles he has traveled; all the places he has been, the things he has seen. You can see it in his eyes.

He smiles. His touch is light and learned. It lingers on my hood, my headlights. It isn’t like the fumbling touch of other humans. He knows cars. Understands them. Me.

He speaks and his voice is like the gentle rumble of a good engine. He talks to another young man, draws him away from a hulking Volkswagen still very new to the lot, and shows off what he knows. When he lifts my hood, he doesn't poke around blindly. He's almost…

The word escapes me. It's a look I've seen in Dean's eyes when he talks about older, better times, or even after repairs. It's very… _sweet_ , I think the word is? Pretty. Beautiful, maybe.

He convinces the other man—John, my John—to pass on the Volkswagen, to take me instead. A human in my place might surely feel gratitude. But even as I leave the lot for good, I wonder, why not the man with the traveler's eyes? Why John instead of him?

The answer to that question won't come for many years.


End file.
